BE BOLD, BE BOLD
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
One moment, he is stepping into a magic circle on the forest floor, drawn in red ink that gleams like licks of flame. The next-
He’s falling.
For Septimus, that is an unusual sensation, to say the least. It isn’t as though he doesn’t have wings, and, though he seems to spend far more time on the ground than in the air, he certainly knows how to use them. He is flipped on his back, wings trailing up at his sides, and it strikes him, as he stares up at the dull gleam of pink-orange light through the cloud cover, that it is a very beautiful sunrise, inhibited as it is by the clouds. This is followed immediately by the observation that he is falling down toward spirits-know-what at a significant enough speed to break his spine should he crash, and he should likely catch himself before that becomes a problem. (The situation is too sudden for his sense of urgency or panic to kick in.)
His wings snap out – great, birdlike things, struggling against the buffet of cold currents –, and he writhes in the air, fighting the wind to flip himself over. His hooves paw at air, but he manages to turn onto his stomach, and, though he wobbles for a moment, wholly disoriented, tangles of mane flying in his face, he manages to straighten out, blinking at the landscape. He is flying above the sea. (And, silently, he thanks the steady fastenings on his satchel; if his materials had fallen into the water, there would be no fishing them out. And he’d been clever enough to leave his glasses in his bag while travelling – one too many close calls with cracked lenses had taught him the virtue of precaution.) Below him, the water is frothing and dark, and, above him, the sky is overcast – he smells rain in the distance. To the west, he thinks that he can make out the shape of dark, rocky cliffs rising from the sea. His wings shift, and he banks towards land.
By the time Septimus lights on the edge of a great, frost-crusted prairie, his wings are aching from the strong sea winds, and, though sweat runs rivulets down his sides – tangling in his dark fur and plastering his mane to his neck, mingled with sea-foam and salt – he is shaking from the cold, teeth chattering incessantly. Wherever he’s landed, it seems like it is in their equivalent of winter. (Or perhaps this is a land where it was always cold; he’d been to a few of those before.) Well. A few quick spells, and he’ll reorient himself and be on his way, though he thinks that perhaps he’ll explore a while first. It all depends on where he’s landed. He shakes his head, and pulls his satchel off, grimacing at the damp leather; his notebooks have remained blissfully dry in spite of it all, however, and he is soon flipping through his most recent one, frowning at the spell that brought him here.
A mistake with the coordinates. Of course. Well, never matter. Where is that navigation spell he spent so long on? He dog-eared it…
(He’s dog-eared half of the pages in his notebook.)
After a moment of fruitless searching, he realizes that he is looking through the wrong notebook and replaces it with another. And there it is, just a few yellowed pages in. (Goodness, how many years ago had he written it?) He closes his eyes, focuses on his earrings, and murmurs the words – just as he always does.
Nothing happens. Septimus’s eyes snap open, gleaming bright green, and he feels a sudden jolt of ice run down his limbs, quick and rattling as a jolt of electricity. He grimaces and tries again.
Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing…
And worse, he feels nothing. It is as though half of his bloodline has gone horribly silent, his fae-blood dormant and cold inside of his soul – his earrings feel dead, and he feels…
…mortal.
This revelation is processed dully, like the distant throb of a gaping wound; he immediately reassures himself that this can be righted, he needs only find the solution, and perhaps he is simply drained from that transportation spell anyways. (Though the aching silence says otherwise; his magic has always been so loud.) He stares up at the sunrise, barely visible through the clouds save for a dull hint of pastel at their furthest, palest edges. He needs to figure out where he is. And hope that the native population isn’t hostile. That should be his first order of business, shouldn’t it? But, for the moment, he is frozen in place, shell-shocked and freezing, unable to do anything more than stare at the sunrise and attempt to appreciate it.
“It seems,” he observes, unable to suppress a shudder of melancholy and sudden nausea, “that I have made a miscalculation.”
@Minya || heeere we go <3
"Speech!"
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
One moment, he is stepping into a magic circle on the forest floor, drawn in red ink that gleams like licks of flame. The next-
He’s falling.
For Septimus, that is an unusual sensation, to say the least. It isn’t as though he doesn’t have wings, and, though he seems to spend far more time on the ground than in the air, he certainly knows how to use them. He is flipped on his back, wings trailing up at his sides, and it strikes him, as he stares up at the dull gleam of pink-orange light through the cloud cover, that it is a very beautiful sunrise, inhibited as it is by the clouds. This is followed immediately by the observation that he is falling down toward spirits-know-what at a significant enough speed to break his spine should he crash, and he should likely catch himself before that becomes a problem. (The situation is too sudden for his sense of urgency or panic to kick in.)
His wings snap out – great, birdlike things, struggling against the buffet of cold currents –, and he writhes in the air, fighting the wind to flip himself over. His hooves paw at air, but he manages to turn onto his stomach, and, though he wobbles for a moment, wholly disoriented, tangles of mane flying in his face, he manages to straighten out, blinking at the landscape. He is flying above the sea. (And, silently, he thanks the steady fastenings on his satchel; if his materials had fallen into the water, there would be no fishing them out. And he’d been clever enough to leave his glasses in his bag while travelling – one too many close calls with cracked lenses had taught him the virtue of precaution.) Below him, the water is frothing and dark, and, above him, the sky is overcast – he smells rain in the distance. To the west, he thinks that he can make out the shape of dark, rocky cliffs rising from the sea. His wings shift, and he banks towards land.
By the time Septimus lights on the edge of a great, frost-crusted prairie, his wings are aching from the strong sea winds, and, though sweat runs rivulets down his sides – tangling in his dark fur and plastering his mane to his neck, mingled with sea-foam and salt – he is shaking from the cold, teeth chattering incessantly. Wherever he’s landed, it seems like it is in their equivalent of winter. (Or perhaps this is a land where it was always cold; he’d been to a few of those before.) Well. A few quick spells, and he’ll reorient himself and be on his way, though he thinks that perhaps he’ll explore a while first. It all depends on where he’s landed. He shakes his head, and pulls his satchel off, grimacing at the damp leather; his notebooks have remained blissfully dry in spite of it all, however, and he is soon flipping through his most recent one, frowning at the spell that brought him here.
A mistake with the coordinates. Of course. Well, never matter. Where is that navigation spell he spent so long on? He dog-eared it…
(He’s dog-eared half of the pages in his notebook.)
After a moment of fruitless searching, he realizes that he is looking through the wrong notebook and replaces it with another. And there it is, just a few yellowed pages in. (Goodness, how many years ago had he written it?) He closes his eyes, focuses on his earrings, and murmurs the words – just as he always does.
Nothing happens. Septimus’s eyes snap open, gleaming bright green, and he feels a sudden jolt of ice run down his limbs, quick and rattling as a jolt of electricity. He grimaces and tries again.
Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing…
And worse, he feels nothing. It is as though half of his bloodline has gone horribly silent, his fae-blood dormant and cold inside of his soul – his earrings feel dead, and he feels…
…mortal.
This revelation is processed dully, like the distant throb of a gaping wound; he immediately reassures himself that this can be righted, he needs only find the solution, and perhaps he is simply drained from that transportation spell anyways. (Though the aching silence says otherwise; his magic has always been so loud.) He stares up at the sunrise, barely visible through the clouds save for a dull hint of pastel at their furthest, palest edges. He needs to figure out where he is. And hope that the native population isn’t hostile. That should be his first order of business, shouldn’t it? But, for the moment, he is frozen in place, shell-shocked and freezing, unable to do anything more than stare at the sunrise and attempt to appreciate it.
“It seems,” he observes, unable to suppress a shudder of melancholy and sudden nausea, “that I have made a miscalculation.”
@
"Speech!"
AND RARELY, IF THE WOOD ACCEPTS THE BLADE WITHOUT CONDITIONSthe two pieces keep their balance in spite of the blow❃please tag Septimus! contact is encouraged, short of violence
